


Four The Living

by LivSWS



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, Blood and Torture, Demons, Horror, Immortality, M/M, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Supernatural Elements, Victorian Influences, Victorian Science Fiction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-10
Updated: 2016-09-27
Packaged: 2018-03-11 09:56:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3323189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LivSWS/pseuds/LivSWS
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If you were given the opportunity to live forever, would you take it? Ten years ago, I would have expected that you'd tell me that I was being ridiculous. I mean, surely no human can live forever, right?<br/>Wrong.<br/>We're living in 2077 now, where the City of Light is making immortality the latest fashion. And thanks to Kirschtein Inc., immortality costs only a few thousand dollars and a painful injection every morning starting from the day you turn twenty-one.</p><p>Sounds perfect, doesn't it?<br/>We're the ones who put Death out of business.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> So this is my new project!  
> I was meant to post this in summer, but I just got so excited that I decided to share it with you now. I'm really looking forward to writing the rest of this fic and I hope you all support me with it as much as you have with my other one.  
> So thank you!
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: blood, violence and torture.
> 
> Enjoy!

Date: 06/April/2059  
Time: 23:48  
Location: Whitehorse, Canada.

Ominous, threatening footsteps slowly circle the body lying in the centre of the room, strapped with leather bounds to the raised platform it’s been placed on. It’s motionless – almost lifeless – aside from the faint flicker of a heart beat and the hitched breath leaving blood-corrupted lungs.

The body’s surveyor examines his work meticulously, running his long, bony fingers over the scarred skin of his prisoner’s chest with a sly grin. He marvels at the cuts and bruises he’s placed over the formerly perfect clear of the body’s skin and licks his lips at the prominent scar he’s made on the face of the body from earlier when it had attempted to escape.

The scar itself is a rather ugly thing, not disfiguring the pure, calm demeanour of the figure’s face, but deep enough for it to be there for life. Starting from the right side of the forehead, it runs smoothly down over the body’s closed eye, ending just below the place where dark, dreary bag have begun to form, the blood crusting over to form a scab as it’s left alone.

Just the memory of the struggle that had occurred between the captor and this _marvellous_ creature gives him the shivers, revelling in the feeling that filled him with triumph as he performed a blow to the body’s head that was powerful enough to make it collapse. But the way it fell wasn’t like it had done so many times before; it was better. It didn’t _want_ to fall this time. But it did, falling into the claws of the captor like the prey of an awaiting lion.

Getting tired of the lack of blood seeping from the body, the abductor extends his longest digit slowly, and drags his talon-like nail down the hostage’s abdomen, laughing with glee as thick crimson stains the perfectly pale skin. But with no reaction or scream of pain, the body’s captor releases a dreary sigh, raising his hand to strike his captive across the cheek. But he’s interrupted just in time.

Choking its guts up, the body splutters back to what it thinks is reality, with some kind of thick liquid spewing past its lips. The substance dribbles over its skin and down onto its stomach, clinging to its skin like tar. Whether it’s blood or vomit, it doesn’t know. And it’s in too much pain to even care to find out.

Its chest throbs as if it’s been battered and beaten for days on end and it can feel its heart palpitating against its ribs. It comes to the conclusion that even though it’d been beaten enough earlier and had passed out twice already, its imprisoner clearly continued his torture even when consciousness had left it. But it can’t see any bruises yet.

It can’t see anything at all.

As it shifts a little, the body feels its skin rub against the cold metal slab it’s been thrown on. It tries to sit up but to no avail, grappling uselessly under the hold of its leather bounds that dig into its reddened skin, burning it even more.

Its captor laughs at the mess he’s made of the thing in front of him, skipping delightedly and clapping his hands as he watches the struggle before him. The sight of this creature suffering under his doing fills the captor with an adrenaline rush that makes his eyes lighten with delight. Oh how _long_ he’s waited to watch this being writhe in pain for all the things it’s ever done and all the misery it’s inflicted. Not that the captor can say anything, mind. He’s just as bad: a murderer – ruthless to the very bone.

The body begins to manage its breath, gripping at the sides of the slab in anxiety, it’s limbs shaking as it notices that whatever dripped onto his body a moment ago, is now drying against its skin, crusting and flaking.

Blood. Definitely blood.

Droplets of the same substance that it threw from its lips begin to roll down its back, and when it presses even further against the metal slab to stop whatever’s bleeding, its shoulder blades start to sting and more blood pours down its back. Gasping from the pain, it flinches away, only to be held down by the constricting ties.

Growling, it snaps its head to glare at the abductor, its eyes burning into him as it catches sight of the shadow moving within the dark. It bears its teeth, craning its neck to keep track as the shadow of the captor moves swiftly through the dark, making it almost impossible to look him in the eye.

With a low rumble, the body finally speaks, its voice strained by the agony it’s being dragged through. “Look, you’ve got me. What do you want?”

The captor pauses its games, finally coming to a stop beside the slab. With an inflated sigh he loiters to a corner of the dark, his footsteps echoing behind him as he goes, not giving the body an answer. A metal clinking chain rattles through the nothingness as moonlight begins to pour into the room from above, blinding the body for just a moment.

Its eyes adjust to what it assumes is nightlight coming from an open shutter and it glances quickly at its surroundings before the captor returns.

But there’s nothing – just the body, the metal slab and the captor, alone in an empty, black space. The room is utterly desolate and bare, aside from the chilling sensation the body feels each time it relaxes against the slab.

“Where will he be?” a voice booms from within the black.

“I don’t know,” the creature mutters, having been through this interrogation too many times before.

“Oh, but I think you do,” the captor coos, his footsteps coming closer. “I think you know _exactly_ where he’ll be, and you’re going to tell me where.”

The footsteps come to a stop right next to the body’s head, its breath heavy like stone on his chest as it tries not to look at its kidnapper in the face. All it has to do is get a glance of the blistered, red skin on his hand to know not to look him in the eye. One look would make it damned for eternity – not that it isn’t already.

“I’ve told you once, and I’ve told you a thousand fucking times that I don’t know – no, I _never_ know – where he’ll be. You’re wasting your time,” the creature growls, screwing its eyes closed to resist the temptation of looking.

An almighty, ferocious roar thunders from the abductor’s chest, plunging his talons into the body’s chest, the sharp edges puncturing the skin and sliding past the bones with ease and the body screams out in torture. The threatening point grazes over the space where a heart should be, making it clear that it’s not afraid to go further, therefore destroying the body’s soul with it.

Not many have the power to do that, but the body would rather not piss of one of the few that can. The soul and _him_ is all it has left.

“Tell me where he’ll be, beast,” the captor hisses, digging deeper into the skin. The body winces, its breath hitching as the claws get ever closer to its soul.

“I don’t know!”

Breath shakes with rage next to the creature’s ear and the captor brings his other hand to the body’s throat. The advantage of the body not being able to die just makes the portentous threat of torture all the more unbearable for it. “You should know,” the captor hisses. “You’re the one that always falls, aren’t you?”

The body doesn’t answer, biding its time. Unbeknownst to the captor, it can feel _him_ coming.

“Even if I did know where he’ll rise, I would never tell you,” it spits.

The captor huffs gruffly, withdrawing his talons from the body’s chest and he turns away. “’ _Rise_ ’”, he scoffs, “you make it sound like he’s unspoiled.”

The body gasps, its frame tensing as something warm begins to fill its chest, radiating heat throughout it, making its fingers tingle. The feeling only lasts for a moment, but the body has felt this too many times before for it to be mistaken.

It’s _him_.

“He is now.”

“What?” The captor turns back towards the slab, eyes raging as he slams his hands down on the metal. “What’re you saying, _beast_?”

The body grins and stares up at the light shining down on it, letting its chilling warmth spread over it, bathing in the feeling of _him_ again.

“You’re too late,” it smiles. “He’s risen.”

The captor begins to scream, readying his clawed hand to pierce the body’s chest again and this time not hesitating to take its soul. But he’s distracted by a sudden crash of stone, the sound resonating through the room as the noise gets closer.

The body laughs as its eyes turn pale, its bloody back arching off the slab with the feeling of ecstasy running through his veins again.

Oh, how he’s missed _him_!

The wall opposite the captor shatters, sending rocks and shards flying through the space and clattering all around the gleaming body. Upon watching his beloved torture chamber begin to crumble into ruin, the captor runs back into the darkness screaming in defeat as he goes, mysteriously disappearing as if he was never there.

Three figures standing in the newly formed hole in the wall and rush into the room, quickly releasing the body from its bounds. Carefully, they help him to sit upright and allow him to fall onto a combination of the two shorter figures’ shoulders. The shortest of the three rolls its eyes at the grinning corpse weighing on its shoulders, still hazy and warm from the feeling that it’s been missing for nearly fifty years.

“C’mon,” the middle one groans, “let’s get the fuck out of here before anyone finds us.”

“Or before Mr Happy starts talking,” the shorter grumbles, hefting the body off the slab completely, allowing its weight to crush the two of them.

The tallest merely watches silently as its companions start dragging the body out of the room, struggling between the two of them to carry its weight. The tallest smiles weakly, knowing what toils and troubles will await them now that _he_ has risen from his fifty year sleep. But it knows that the pain that will come cannot be helped. Besides, without _him_ , the three of them would have never even existed.

The other two begin moaning as the body starts mumbling again, the same words over and over again: “He’s here. He’s finally here.”

Now they just have to find _him_.


	2. The Science of Making Choices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You always have two choices: your commitment versus your fear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: family issues, drug mentions, alcohol mentions, smoking mention and fainting.

Date: 28/September/2077  
Time: 18:17  
Location: San Francisco, USA.

Lights blare and shine on the window glass like search lights. Except, they’ve already got me and I’m just waiting for my imminent death. They’re loud and bright, even in the dark, and they explode on the pristine white walls of my house. Red, switching to blue and then back again over and over, accompanied by the gruff footsteps of my driver only make this worse. They’re treating me like I’m a fucking serial killer.

Even the music booming through the speaker sounds muffled as I listen through the glass to the piercing sound of my front door opening and my brother stepping out into the cold. He shivers the moment the cool air reaches his skin; either out of chill or the knowing that something’s wrong.

Of course he knows something’s wrong, a cop’s just knocked on the front door.

The moment the cop moves his mouth Thomas looks back into the house and calls out to someone – the only other person in the house. And that’s when I decide to look away as to not look my dad directly in the eye as he gets told that I’ve been arrested again.

It takes a little longer for the shouting to start this time. That’s probably a good thing. It shows that dad’s kinda getting used to this now. Well, that or he’s spent a little longer trying to bribe them again. He’s wasting his time. Dad may be the richest guy on the planet but there’s no way he’s gonna keep the press from finding out about this. They find out every time.

My door opens and I’m hauled out of the car by the cop. I can’t help but notice the wad of cash stuffed into his front pocket, but I’m pushed forwards anyway towards the door and the shadow of my dad’s figure spanning out over the gravel.

Metal clinks behind my back and next thing I know my wrists are free once more and I can actually move my arms around. That one brief moment of freedom is short lived, though. The moment I look up to face my dad I may as well just put myself back in the cop car. I think I liked it a little more in there. At least it had music.

It’s like looking Death in the face but worse. I’ve seen this look too many times before and it scares me how used to it I am now. But my dad’s glance moves from me to the cop and he smiles sweetly as he gets lectured about my health, education… yadda, yadda, yadda.

“I’ll make sure he stays out of trouble,” dad smiles, grabbing my arm and dragging me into the house before I cause any more harm.

The cop hums and scratches his stubbly chin, scrutinizing how different I look to the rest of my well-kempt family. I probably stick out like a sore thumb compared to the shirts and designer jeans adorning my dad and brother. “Just make sure this doesn’t happen again,” the cop says. “I can’t keep him out of jail for much longer than this, Mr. Kirschtein. If it happens again then Jean will have to be sentenced.”

“Well, we can’t have that, can we?” dad grins, ruffling my hair like I’m five years old again. He does it a little rougher than he did back then since this is all a ploy to make him seem like the model fucking citizen.

“No, sir, we really can’t.”

“I’m glad we’ve come to an understanding.”

My stomach cringes as the cop takes his queue to leave. The moment that door closes I’m basically dead meat. And when it does, I bolt for my room.

“Jean!”

I run past Thomas and the fucking huge-ass table slap bang in the middle of the hallway and up the stairs. There’s no way in hell that I’m facing my dad now. Since jail’s now on the cards I don’t want to endure yet another screaming match about what I’m doing to my life. The last one ended up with me in Las Vegas for two days getting hammered and wallowing in self-pity. Another one may get me a little further up North – maybe Alaska. The further away from this place I am, the better.

Each call of my name washes over me like air and they keep getting louder until I hear my dad’s raging footsteps storming up the stairs behind me. “Jean Louis Kirschtein, you come back here right this instant!”

Like hell I will. The safety of my bedroom, complete with a working lock that I recently installed sounds much more appealing.

I slide around a corner and down yet another endless corridor, my bedroom door just about in sight. God I hate this house. It’s too big to run in and actually get to where you want before you get slaughtered. My lungs feel like I’m running a marathon.

“Jean!”

I cut off my dad’s yells with a slam of my door and my shaky hands fiddle with the lock until I’m sure that I’m safe – for now, at least. I rest against the wood and slowly sink down to the floor to catch my breath. My dad finally catches up with me a little too late and starts banging on the door and rattling the handle to try and get it open. It doesn’t work and I stay where I am, staring at the dark mess of my room whilst my dad screams at me from outside.

“You’re going to kill yourself!” he yells. “If you take the serum and then do _this_ to yourself then you’ll _die_ , Jean! Is that what you want? Do you _want_ it to kill you?”

I’m not taking the fucking serum. I’m not a mindless sheep like everyone else on this goddamned planet.

I don’t want to live forever.

 

* * *

 

For as long as I can remember I’ve woken up every morning to see the infamous, thick, watery fog settle like death over the streets of the city that lies behind Alcatraz like another dimension. It’s like two parallel worlds both stuck in different times. And I get to look at it from my bedroom window every morning and every night.

In the evenings, I usually stand on the cold metal balcony and watch in the stabbing air as the sun descends over the jagged horizon, and the neon lights of the Bay Bridge come to life. And in the mornings, I wake up to watch the sun give out its light onto the two worlds that lay out in front of me – Alcatraz, the very exemplification of subjugation, and the streets of San Francisco, the City of Light and the “new age”, as my dad calls it.

It’s a truly mesmerizing sight if you get up early enough. The way the fog eclipses the dust of the concrete jungle, only leaving the sharp, pointed roofs makes the sky look like it’s being impaled by blackened knives – it's a sight that never quite leaves you.

I stand in the early morning breeze, craving the taste of tobacco on my tongue and the feeling of lethal smoke filling my lungs as I look out at the clouded streets of the city. I’ve missed the sight of the sunrise and the disappearance of the fluorescent lights by just an hour. But lethargy that’s been building gradually for the last month or two from staying up too late thinking about what really goes in in the City of Light has finally crashed down on me. And I’m really fucking paying for it. I can barely keep my eyes open as I look out at the misty streets.

Picking at my skin, I start to become agitated as the rumble of the city begins to awaken, the familiar synths and whirring travelling across the bay towards me. I haven't had a cigarette in over a week and my addiction to the nicotine has started to take its toll on me. Sadly, it’s practically impossible to get a single fucking puff of smoke now.

My usual contact has gone off the radar recently and I haven't been able to get my weekly fix from him. It's a fucking pain, if I'm honest. I miss the time when I could walk down the road to the convenience store and pick up a pack without the cops on my ass.

Things are just too different now.           

A loud, enthusiastic knocking erupts from behind me and I sluggishly turn to stare at my brother grinning at me from inside the house. He’s got his face pressed up against the glass, making his features crooked and squashed in hopes to get a laugh out of me, or something to signify that I am actually awake and not sleepwalking.

To be honest, he just looks like an idiot, so I roll my eyes at him and trudge slowly towards the glass door he’s squished up against. Even when I slide it open with murder on my mind, Thomas still doesn’t lose his cheesy grin. Anyone would think he was seven instead of seventeen.

“What do you want, Thomas?” I drone, leaning against the doorway. It probably came out as more of a slur rather than actual words, but he’s known me long enough to translate the sounds that come out of my mouth.

His grin gets wider as he moves out of the way slightly, beckoning me to come into the living room. “Dad’s on TV!”

Of course Dad’s on TV. Dad’s always on fucking TV.

I sigh, running my fingers through my bed-hair and I stumble through the doorway, slamming it closed behind me. “I shouldn’t be Dad that’s on there,” I mutter, dragging my feet behind me as I head towards the kitchen. I have other things on my mind like whether I should eat that leftover pizza for breakfast or actually do anything at all today, not ogling at my good-for-nothing Dad roll about in fame on the TV.

So what if he’s the face of the company who discovered the secret to eternal life? And by secret, I really do mean secret. Hardly anyone knows exactly what’s in that fucking serum. For all I know, people could be injecting dog shit into their veins and they couldn’t care less because _weyhey_ they get to live forever.

But hey, I’m not _entirely_ complaining. Being part of one of the richest families in the world certainly has benefits – benefits such as lots of sex, cars, the press on our doorstep every day and pizza for every meal since Dad’s never in to actually cook us anything and is currently fucking our new maid. So in other words, not much gets done around here.

Thomas follows me into the kitchen like a lost puppy, still holding out his smile, even when I completely ignore him and open the fridge to scout out the leftover pepperoni pizza from last night. He just stands there, hoping I’ll give into him and go watch whatever show Dad’s on this time. Usually this method works on me. But I’m too tired and pissed off to even care.

My application for Boston University got denied because of my criminal record, which I guess is a good thing since I don’t want to step within six feet of that place. The only thing is that Dad wants me to go there and he’ll be pissed when he finds out and I’ll get the “you’re a sorry excuse for a son” lecture. So yeah, I’m not exactly looking forward to telling him that.

“Where’s the pizza?” I grumble into the cool artificial breeze of the fridge.

When Thomas doesn’t say anything and I feel his smile fade, I know exactly where my pizza is.

“Did you eat it?” I turn to face him and roll my eyes as he begins shifting uncomfortably under my glare.

He shrugs sheepishly. “Sorry, Jean, it looked too good.”

Despite my wrathful glare, I know I can’t stay annoyed with him for long. Thomas has been my best friend for as long as I can remember and he’s the only person I’ve ever encountered who’s really made a difference in my life.

Well, him and my mom.

“You’re lucky I like you,” I huff.

His smile returning, Thomas ignores my protests from before and grabs my wrist, dragging me back into the living room and pushing me onto the sofa. I decide not to argue this time and lean back into the leather, staring at the paused hologram of my dad’s false beam that he practices in the mirror every morning. The very sight of him makes me want to vomit.

Before I can even begin my forced gagging noises, Thomas commands the hologram to play and the smooth pixels slowly begin talking.

The interview starts with my dad’s fake laughter echoing through the room like an alarm clock going off an hour early. He hasn’t even started talking and I already want to leave the room. But Thomas’s dumb-ass grin makes me stay just humor him.

“So, Karl,” the talk show host grins, “of course we all know about the phenomenon of your work, but I suppose we don’t know much about the main man himself.”

My dad feigns modesty waving a hand in front of him in dismissal and laughing some more. It’s all lies. He fucking loves it.

“So why don’t you tell us a bit about yourself? You have two sons, don’t you?”

I let off an exasperated sigh as my dad’s face falls a little, knowing that he’ll have to say something nice about me. This should be interesting.

“Yes,” my dad nods, “I have two boys called Thomas and Jean.”

“How old are they?” the host asks with a pearly white grin. Her dentist is trying too hard, I note.

“Thomas has just turned seventeen and Jean’s eighteen.”

Yeah, Dad, keep your answers as short as possible so the host can go back to talking about you.

“And they’re both good boys?”

“Yeah,” my dad laughs. “I have a little trouble with Jean every now and then, but I guess he’s just going through his rebellious phase.”

Just as he finishes his sentence, a picture flashes on the screen behind them, causing the audience to burst into laughter.

“Well,” the talk show host giggles, “one of your boys doesn’t seem that good to me!”

“Oh my god,” Thomas breathes as he stares in horror at the picture. “Jean is that you?”

Yeah. It’s me. It’s me photographed at a really unflattering angle whilst getting shoved into a cop car last week. See, I knew the press would find out. These new cameras they’ve got are so small you don’t even know they’ve got a photo of you until your face ends up all over the internet, usually with headlines such as ‘ _Kirschtein Spawn Dealing Cancer Sticks?’_ That one was my favorite. It’s so inaccurate it actually made me laugh. Firstly, I’m not a dealer. I never have been and I never will be. And secondly, I had no idea that people had started calling tobacco ‘cancer sticks’ now. Who’d have thought that all this hoo-ha is just because you can’t take the immortality serum if you smoke?

I watch as the image of my dad turns to look at the picture behind him. He laughs, shaking his head and looks back at the interviewer, not looking at the freeze frame for too long in case his disgust starts to show.

The smile on his face only masks the embarrassment he feels each time he looks at me. I still remember the screaming match we had once I actually came out of my room two days after that cop brought me home. I basically lived off scraps of pizza I found in my room and Thomas occasionally bringing me leftovers just so I could avoid my dad for a while.

Of course to this piece of shit story the audience hoots as my dad continues to play the model citizen, laughing it off and returning his attention back to the questions. “Like I said: rebellious!” he smiles. “But no… he’s a good boy, really. He just needs some guidance.”

I think every person in the entire fucking world just shook their heads in disappointment. Literally everyone knows that I’m not a “good boy”.

“Suck my dick,” I mumble, sinking further into the sofa as the interview warbles on. They eventually move on from the subject of me and start talking about Thomas and how smart he is.

Whilst Thomas continues to watch the interview with genuine interest, my dad walks into the living room, carrying a coffee mug in his hand and with our new maid, Michelle, trailing sheepishly behind him. He walks past Thomas without giving him a second glance and I hope he walks past me too. He does, but he also pats my shoulder with a new found lightness I’ve never felt before. “Jean,” he calls as he walks away, “kitchen.”

A single slide glance towards Thomas and an unknowing shrug back says it all. If Thomas doesn’t know what this is about, then it must be important. And if it’s to do with me it can’t be good. I even see Michelle get sent out of the kitchen.

Great. One-to-one sessions with my dad are my _favorites_. I almost want Michelle to be there too just so I’m not the only one who’s around to witness Dad’s wrath.

With a lot of regret and interview suddenly seeming a lot more interesting than before, I trudge into the kitchen and sit opposite my dad at the table whilst he sips his coffee and flicks through today’s headlines on his cell. I can see his stony expression right through the blue hologram in front of him and he doesn’t take his eyes off the writing once.

“If it’s the cops then I didn’t do it,” I laugh with force, trying to make things a little less tense between us. But it doesn’t work.

The awkwardness between us is like a brick wall. We haven’t properly spoken since the screaming match we had and I really, _really_ hope this isn’t about that. So I let my curiosity/dread get the better of me and let my tongue move. “So, uh—“ Great start, Jean. Keep going like this and maybe Dad will actually look at you for a change. “What did you wanna talk about?”

Finally, he looks up at me. It’s only for a moment but hey, he acknowledged that I’m here and that’s a start. He then sets his coffee mug on the glass table in front of him and with a swipe of his hand, closes the headlines on his cell. The hologram folds up like paper and then fades back into the little black box strapped to his wrist so there’s nothing between us and I instantly feel over-exposed. If I’d known we were going to have a meeting like this I would have made a bit more effort rather than just coming out in my boxers and a t-shirt that’s twice my size.

But he doesn’t seem to care. Hell, I can’t even tell what he’s thinking. He’s just staring at me like I’m not even here and it’s like he’s gazing right through me. I can feel my skin pricking with each second that goes by and his eyes just get harsher on me.

If his goal is to make me feel really awkward like there’s shit on my face or something then it’s definitely working. I even go to wipe the hypothetical shit off my face with the back of my hand.

“You’re moving out.”

“What?” I have to take a moment to do a double take. My hand falls from my face and I stare at him like a guppy with a wide open mouth and knitted brows. Something tells me I’m hearing things, but then Dad starts talking again.

“I just don’t think I can cope with you anymore, Jean,” he says blankly. “It’ll only be temporary and I’ve sorted it all out but—“

“What?!” I shoot out of my seat, making it scrape across the floor and slam my hands on the table in a panic. My nails scratch at the surface of the glass and I glare at my dad with burning eyes. “You’re kicking me out?!”

“It’s for your own good.”

“How?!” I yell. “Tell me, Dad, _how_ is this ‘for my own good’?”

He stands up too, calmer than me and with a more sinister stare. Leaning forwards over the glass divide between us, he comes within a mere inch of my face and grits his teeth at me. “I don’t know what to do with you anymore, Jean,” he hisses. “I gave you an education and you never listened. I gave you a home and all you do is cause your brother and me distress. I can get you into any university you want and you’re fucking that up too because of your antics. I can’t stand for it anymore.”

My breath’s leaving my lungs faster than my own heartbeat and I grip at nothing as I try to keep myself from lashing out. Nails dig into my skin so hard I can feel them making imprints on me. I try to steady my breath as silence falls between the two of us. It’s probably best that I calm down before this conversation goes any further.

From anger, to sadness, and then to utter despair, I fall back into my seat in disbelief and denial. At first, a false hope that maybe this isn’t real fills me, but then Dad shatters it by placing something official-looking in front of me.

At a glance, it looks like nothing I’d be interested in, so I look up at him with refusal making its mark on me. No matter what he throws at me, there’s no way I’m leaving this house. This is my home. It has been for as long as I can remember and I’m not leaving.

“That thing there is about you,” Dad says, pointing to the item he placed in front of me. “I’d take a look at it if I were you.”

Trying to keep my eyes as far away from all of this as I can, I look down at the thing on the table. My eyes widen the moment I look at it properly.

It’s an envelope addressed to my dad… that’s made of _paper_.

“I-is that—“

“Paper? Yes.”

Looking to my dad for permission that he silently gives, I reach out and run my fingertips over the rough envelope, feeling every fold and thin edge. It’s mesmerizing. This is actual _paper_ that’s come from an actual _person_ who’s taken the time to _hand write_ the old-fashioned version of an e-mail and deliver it to my dad via _post_.

I had no idea that you could still send letters.

No one's written letters in years. It's 2077 for crying out loud – no one writes letters; not even my grandparents. Shit like the thing that’s currently on the table should be in a museum.

“Open it,” Dad orders.

“Why? Am I going to Hogwarts or something?”

“Hogwarts is a fictional school that was created over seventy years ago, Jean, and I’m surprised you even know what it is. So just open it and find out.”

It was worth a try.

As much as I may be a hardened criminal, I can still respect antiques such as this, so I pick up the envelope with as much care as I can and open it. I can tell it’s been read already judging by the crinkles in the paper and I take out the letter inside.

“Read it.”

Turning away from him, my hands crumple the sides of the paper in fear as I begin to read.

_Dear Mr Kirschtein,_

_I am writing to inform you of our institution, Trost Academy, for the sake of your eldest son, Jean Kirschtein._  
_As a community we have seen your son in his daily life as he is seen frequently in the public eye. His behaviour during recent months has escalated, we have noticed, to the point where many have become concerned with how this will affect his future. I understand that this may come across as interfering, but we as an academic institution aim to give everyone a chance at a decent future and a comfortable life._  
_Since your son has recently acquired a criminal record this year, we understand that it will possibly be difficult for him to get into a high-end university, so we would like to offer him a place here at our academy._  
_We feel that your son would make an esteemed addition to our community here, despite his grades from High School and criminal record. As Trost Academy is more of a rehabilitation facility rather than an academic one, we feel that Jean would flourish here with the help of our older learners and pastoral care that will help him take control over his life and prepare him for future challenges._  
_Trost Academy is a very traditional school, so we do not tolerate any form of delinquency here. We have a strict set of rules in place here and a set routine for all of our attendees that they stick to throughout their time at Trost. I assume that this would appeal to the both of you with Jean’s previous scrapes with the law and mishaps at his previous schools._  
_Here at Trost we take care of all our students individually and place them in courses with students and teachers that we believe will benefit them, plus study groups and a counselling service for those who need it. With a range of courses to choose from, including English and Architecture, I’m sure that if you and your son accept this offer, he will find a course that he will thoroughly enjoy._  
_As we believe that Jean would be such a beneficial addition to this university for both the committee here and you, we are offering him a place free of charge. A slot has been saved for him in the meantime in hopes of your reply, along with a dorm on campus and a roommate. I have also enclosed a leaflet that will explain our school in more detail for you and what we do to help our students._  
_We hope here at Trost Academy that you will take us up on this offer and send your son to study with us here in hopes of a brighter future for him._

_I wish to hear from you soon,_

_Dot Pixis, Principal of Trost Academy._

My heart sinks as I read those final words. I’ve never heard of this place before, yet it looks like my dad’s shipping me off there anyway without giving it a second thought. Where do I even come in all of this? Where’s _my_ choice? Or is it because they’ve offered me a place ‘free of charge’?

He may be the richest man on the planet, but _fuck_ my dad’s a cheapskate.

Still refusing reality, I read the letter over and over again just so the words sink in a little harder and I can actually get my head around all of this.

‘We do not tolerate any form of delinquency here.’ Oh, fuck off. This place sounds more like a prison than a college. I’ve never heard of this place before and the word “traditional” doesn’t exactly go down well in my head since this offer was made on _paper_.

Maybe this is some kind of sick joke that my dad’s playing on me?

The stony glare he gives me throws that hope straight out of the window, over the balcony divide and down into the calm water outside. I can hear it scream all my hopes and dreams as it drowns, only leaving the tiniest bubbles behind until all hope inside me has dwindled away like a computer backup gone wrong.

Fuming, I almost rip the letter in half. I have my choice for college sorted already. I want to go to Stanford to study computer science, much to my dad’s despair. But he wants me to go to Boston and study Business. Well… now this Trost place seems up for grabs and I don’t like the sound of anything that letter says.

 “There’s no fucking way that I’m going anywhere near that place,” I snap, screwing up the paper in my palm.

“You don’t have a choice,” Dad declares. “I’ve already contacted the school. Your flight is in three days.”

“You can’t do this,” I breathe.

“I already have.”

Drained, I collapse backwards into my seat and allow the letter to drop from my hold. I look to my dad with a soundless plea and even a promise to do whatever the hell he says just so I can stay here. But he gives me the cold shoulder and knocks me speechless.

“You can choose two courses out of the choices they’ve given you. The campus itself seems pretty decent and their rehabilitation scheme—“

“I don’t need rehab.”

He scoffs. “Clearly you do since you’re filling your lungs with tobacco on a daily basis.”

I ignore him, shifting in my seat like a child would just so I don’t have to look him in the eye as he rejects me. Even when I look away I can still feel his cold, unforgiving glare on me and it makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

“I’m trying to help you, Jean,” he sighs. “You can come back and visit during the holidays if you’re good—“

“If I’m ‘ _good’_?” I sneer, folding my arms and lurching towards my dad with my nose turning upwards at the words he’s saying. “I’m not five, Dad and this isn’t kindergarten – it’s a fucking mental home!”

“It’s a _university_ ,” he says, emphasizing every syllable as if I were stupid. “They will also give you counselling—“ I go to stand up and say something, but he raises his hand to stop me and I sit back down again with my fists clenched “—if you want it. You don’t have to have it and they won’t force you.”

“Are _you_ going to force me?” I ask.

There’s a long pause. At first he only quirks an eyebrow at me but then he folds his arms to mirror me and shrugs. “I’ll speak to your teachers throughout your time there. If your behaviour gets worse then I will force you, yes.”

This feels more like a five year old getting told off for eating too many cookies rather than the pretty fucking serious issue of my future. The patronising tone in his voice that seeps out with every word makes me cringe and I just want to get out. If I could then I’d be out the front door faster than you can say “delinquency”. The only sad part is that I probably wouldn’t get very far before my dad calls the cops on my ass and I end up in the back of a police car with handcuffs around my wrists again.

Without another look, Dad turns to leave. He doesn’t look at me once, even when he pauses in the doorway to leave me with one final statement: “Trost Academy is in England, Jean. They said in the leaflet that you’ll need to pack clothes for all types of weather, including snow.”

And then he leaves like nothing’s happened, almost relieved that I’m being taken off his hands by complete strangers in another country.

It hurts. A punch in the gut would be sweeter than this. Yet there’s nothing I can do about it in such a short amount of time.

And so I sit and stare out the window, watching the sun give out its light onto the two worlds that lay out in front of me – Alcatraz, the very exemplification of subjugation, and the streets of San Francisco, the City of Light – afraid, cold and utterly alone.

 

* * *

 

“You can’t just… _leave_!” Thomas cries, flinging himself onto my bed like a child throwing a tantrum. He lands on his back and stares up at the image of the sky playing out above him. The clear skies and peaceful picture beamed onto the ceiling only emphasize the state of panic we’ve both been thrown into more. Nothing, no matter where we turn our heads, seems to put us at ease in response to the news I was just told. “What am I supposed to do with myself once you’re gone?”

I lie down next to him and stare up into the clouds floating above our heads. Gritting my teeth, I suck in a deep breath to try and get my head together and think of a reasonable way to answer my brother. “You could always… talk to dad?”

Thomas elbows me in the stomach for that. “I’m serious, Jean,” he laughs. “This is terrifying. You’re… _leaving_.”

“I would have left either way.”

“But you could have been right here,” he sighs. “You would have only been a short drive away and I could actually see you.”

Scoffing, I claw my hand and ruffle his hair until his neat, short curls become unfurled and disarrayed. “Yeah either that or Boston.”

He sighs, shrugging my hand away from his hair. For some reason, he doesn’t even bother trying to sort it out. He just leaves it in a ruffled condition that makes him look even more ridiculous. “Can’t you just run away or something? Maybe miss the flight on purpose so you can stay here?”

“You know that wouldn’t work, Thomas,” I lament, burying myself further into the mattress. “Besides, where would I stay? I have no friends up here.”

Frowning, he turns his head towards me and gives me a pair of quizzical eyes. “You have friends,” he says. “What about that guy who came over the other week?”

“You mean Luke?” I ask. Thomas nods. “Nah. He’s just my dealer and I haven’t heard from him since then. It’s like he’s vanished or something.”

“But you throw parties when Dad’s not here.”

“They’re not my friends, though. They’re just people who’ll turn up anywhere as long as there’s a promise of getting pissed.” Remembering the last party I threw, I chuckle to myself and then send Thomas a lop-sided grin. “Y’know,” I start, “last time I had a party some guy thought the police were coming for us because he was high as hell and thought every flashing light was a cop car, so he ran to jump off the balcony to escape. This was great and pretty entertaining for basically everyone and it just got better because the glass door was closed and he ran straight into it.”

Despite my best efforts and sudden eruption of a snorting fit, Thomas still looks miserable. Staring off into nothing, his eyes become glassy and blank. Before he can start (since he knows I’ll tease him for it) he wipes his eyes and sniffs, turning his head away from me. All goes quiet for a moment and all I can hear are the raindrops dripping down the glass of my tempescope.

As I glance over to my bedside table, the weather circling around in the structured glass box begins to mirror the elements outside. Light, barely noticeable drops begin to pat at the sliding glass door on the other side of the room. Funny. It hardly rains anymore. Even if this is hardly anything, it’s still odd. Maybe whoever’s upstairs decided to make the mood dwelling over us even worse by adding a bit of ambience right on queue. It’s like I’m in the middle of a story or something – just not a good one.

Thomas shifts, turning to me with red eyes that look like they’re about to burst. It takes me back a bit. Thomas may be sensitive at times but I rarely ever see him on the verge of tears. He’s not that kind of person.

“You’re my only friend, Jean,” he murmurs. “Please don’t leave. I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t here.”

It’s like a fist pounding on my chest. The fear and dread only gets worse and it beats at my ribcage and flows through my veins as if it were my own blood. My entire body becomes deflated and weak as I look on at my brother, tears edging around the corners of his begging eyes as if he’ll never see me again. It just gives me the reality check I need.

If I leave, I abandon all of this. Although I don’t have much except for a life of luxury and a brother who treats me like I’m a part of his own body, I can’t shake the feeling of attachment I have for this place. I grew up here. I’ve been in this city all my life and have watched it grow into the paradise it is today. And I can’t leave Thomas behind. He’s my best friend – my _only_ friend – and the only person who actually gives enough of a shit about me to keep my grounded.

But I know I have to go. It’s not like I _want_ to go, but there’s no way of getting out of this. When Dad’s made up his mind on something then he never backs down – I guess that’s why he’s a multi-billionaire – and there’s no way he’s going to listen to _me_ of all people.

And I can’t run. If I do then I’ll have nowhere to go. I have no one to stay with and even if I did gather up the guts to get out of here it would only be a matter of days before someone found me or I came crawling home because I missed my electric blanket and my TV. It’s happened before and I don’t see why it wouldn’t happen again – even if I was only ten last time I ran away from home.

Maybe it’ll actually help me? I’m not intending on ever obeying my dad’s every wish and demand, but I’d like to actually be happy at home instead of dreading the moment my dad walks into the living room. And I’ll still call Thomas. I’ll call him every day if I have to.And I guess England could be fun? I know there’s this stereotype that British kids are snobby fucks… but maybe it won’t be so bad.

Who am I kidding? I’m gonna fucking die.

* * *

 

Just as promised, three days later I’m sitting in _coach_ on a plane to England with the sweatiest, most unhygienic motherfucker I’ve ever met squashed up next to me like he thinks I’m skinnier than I actually am, and gazing out the window like he’s never seen the ground before. He’s fucking amazed by it. The dude must at least be in his thirties but yet here he is gaping at the other planes like they’re a fucking miracle of creation.

I have the feeling that it’s going to be a long flight. Five hours to England on this thing is going to be the death of me. But of course all I can hear is my Grandma Iris in my ear going, “Back in my day, Jeanbo, it took a plane _ten_ hours to get to England from here. Be grateful!” Yeah, I would be if I wasn’t being engulfed by armpit gas.

This would never have happened if my dad had let me go in the jet. He wouldn’t have had to cash out on a ticket and I wouldn’t be close to suffocating five minutes after getting on this thing. And I probably would have had more sleep. It’s five in the morning and I’ve stayed awake all night dreading this very moment. But apparently Dad needed to use the jet for “business purposes”. I don’t think he’s in the best of moods with me to put me in first class, either.

I’m two seconds away from going “fuck it” and jumping off this plane. My hands even grip the sides of my cheap plastic seat and I rise slightly away from the bubble of body odor sitting next to me. But the moment my feet become firmly secure on the ground and I’m about to speed out, a sound from behind me makes me stop.

“Oh my god!” a girl shouts in a British accent. “It’s Jean Kirschtein!”

“Fuck,” I curse under my breath. I _knew_ coach would be a bad idea. From the very moment my dad presented me with the tickets yesterday I could _feel_ that something like this would happen.

God, I can’t stand it when people recognize me.

Remembering my dad’s harsh words when we first got into the public eye, I force a heart-meltingly-sweet smile to appear on my face and turn to face the girl who shouted at me. She’s sitting two seats behind mine and is staring at me like I’m a fucking angel or some shit, clasping her hands together and gawking with her mouth wide open. I can basically see the heart-eyes popping out of her head.

People start getting out of their seats with cells aimed right at me, ready to take my picture. They’re probably all waiting for me to do something stupid or say something that’ll offend someone. That’s what usually happens, anyway.

Of all the days I could have been recognized, this really isn’t a great one. I look like shit. I feel like shit. And what I don’t need is some teenage girl shouting at me.

“Uh, hi,” I laugh, forcing my smile wider. I probably look like I need a shit rather than happy to meet someone who knows who I am.

The girl gasps, shaking the woman next to her who rolls her eyes at the very sight of me. I’m guessing that’s her disapproving mother. Fantastic.

“It really _is_ you!” she beams, running down the aisle whilst whispers of others start to get louder.

I don’t get why she’s so excited. It’s not like I’m a celebrity or anything. I’m just the son of a rich guy who acts like he’s a gift to humanity.

With a chipper giggle, she grabs my arm and looks up at me with eager eyes. She only looks about fourteen, past the age where innocence is still there but not quite at the stage where I can tell her she has awful taste in who she thinks is a celebrity. “My brother can live forever because of you!” she beams.

Oh. _That’s_ why she likes me. What a shame.

My free hand that’s not having the blood squeezed out of it scratches at the back of my neck and I can feel my cheeks burning. She does know that I’m not the one that came up with the serum, right?

Sounds that never quite form words dribble out of my mouth and I start babbling like an idiot in front of her, still discreetly trying to get her iron grip the fuck off my arm. “I-I didn’t do anything,” I stammer. “I’m not the one who invented the serum; I just reap the benefits. The one who invented it is my—“

I’m cut off by a loud beep screeching through the intercom, followed by a soothingly sweet voice floating through the speakers and into the air around us. “Please may all passengers take their seats,” the hostess announces. “We’re about to depart San Francisco International Airport and begin our trip to London Heathrow. If all passengers would please put on their seatbelts…”

I look back to the girl who’s still staring at me like a miracle of creation. She hasn’t let go of my arm and I don’t think she will any time soon unless I sweet-talk her out of it or use brute force. The latter option doesn’t seem like a good one since I’m still surrounded by gawking faces and cells aimed straight at me. As I stare around the cabin I see numerous, dimmed hologramsof my face shining out of those tiny black boxed strapped to skin, each image flickering in its pixels as the spectators don’t take my picture but just stare at me instead.

They have no idea how ridiculous they all look, standing there with their arms outstretched so their cells can get a good view of me whilst the safety precautions are dictated to us, not one of them listening to a single word. I can’t even read their expressions behind the dimmed image of my own staring right back at me, mimicking my every movement, down to the smallest shift of my eyes.

“Please may everyone take their seats!” another hostess shouts as she wanders into the cabin only to see everyone gaping at me. “We’re taking off in a moment and we must have all passengers seated and belted!”

Breath leaved my body in a sigh of relief and I can feel it slowly deflate as the girl _finally_ breaks her grip on my arm. She smiles at me again, a little less gawky this time, and wraps her arms around my waist.

The gesture makes me stumble backwards and I have to grab on to my seat to keep upright. A chorus of _aw_ ’s and _oh, how sweet_ ’s fills the cabin and I can hear the artificial sound of a camera shutting over and over again as the crowd captures the scene of my complete and utter disbelief.

“Thank you for saving my brother,” she breathes, nuzzling into my chest.

“I… I didn’t…”

“I know,” she smiles, pulling away from me. “But you’re more human.”

Before I can ask her what the hell she’s on about, she goes and sits back down with her mother, who instantly starts scolding her for speaking to me. At least _she_ has a bit of common sense.

Whilst she continues to smile at me and everyone else shuts down their cells for the flight, I sit down next to armpit guy, who’s started gawking at me like everyone else was.

Although I do try not to, I can’t help the squinted glare I slide his way when he stares for a little too long. He instantly shuffles a little further away from me in his seat and looks at the TV screen in front of him as a reminder is played.

Good. The further away his pits are, the better. Now I’m just faced with my dad’s smiling face on the screen in front of me reminding everyone to take their injections. I don’t even bother plugging in my headset to listen. There’s no point. I’ve heard this all before, soon followed by the grunts of almost everyone around me as they stick needles into their skin just to they can live a little longer.

So I wait, and the moment I see armpit guy take out his Immortality Kit from his travel case, I roll my eyes and try to get some sleep amongst the cries of pain coming from the people around me. Somehow, it’s soothing.

* * *

 

They weren’t kidding when they said that Britain never gets any sunlight. Looking out of this taxi window is like looking into a graveyard first thing in the morning. Everything we pass is dull and grey, almost draining, and it looks like the sun’s decided that it hates the British and has fucked off somewhere else. It’s something out of one of those corny horror movies from fifty years ago with strange mist everywhere and dark clouds edging over the horizon. The entire landscape of this place is warped by the dull greys and twisted pales of the sky that make everything that passes seem grim.

If I’m honest, I was expecting this place to not look that much different to San Francisco. I was expecting tall skyscrapers and biomass cars like we do, and everyone around me to have a bubbly accent and be genuinely pleased to be here. That’s what I’m used to where I come from… But this? This is not what I expected.

The moment my taxi driver, Jack (as he ever so kindly introduced himself as), brought me outside from the airport I realized that this is definitely _not_ San Francisco. Or anything like it, for that matter.

I don’t think Britain has quite caught up with the USA in the New Age yet. There are skyscrapers, sure. But they’re not like the ones in Cisco. They’re old and worn with dirtied windows and dents of stone missing, not pristine and white, with clean, cute edges like the ones I look at every morning. There aren’t many cars on the roads, either. When I asked Jack about it, he said that not many people could afford the biomass cars. They have the fuel – it’s free – but the car’s the main issue.

“Only ‘bout three quar’ers of the population have one of them fancy cars,” he’d said, chucking my suitcases into the trunk. “The other quar’er takes public transport. It’s cheaper and it’s easier – especially in London.”

“Why’s that?”

That’s when he stopped and leant against the trunk, folding his arms over his chest and glaring at me with a quizzical frown. “Where was it you’re going, again, mate?”

“Trost Academy.”

He scoffs and shakes his head, opening the door of the black taxi for me. “Where you’re going, boy, you ain’t gonna need a car, trust me.”

He’d gotten into his own seat before I could ask anything else.

I’ve been silent for most of the journey now, only responding to Jack’s odd comment on something he finds interesting as we pass it. It’s usually either a military base or an old building that looks like it’s seconds away from crumbling. But it’s strange. I’ve always been told stories of how London is one of the most prosperous cities in the world, yet we’re just on the border of this legendary city and all I see is grey.

“Jack,” I start, peeling away from the window, “where are we?”

“Just driving into the outskirts of our great capital now,” he grins, keeping his eyes on the almost empty highway in front of us. “Why?”

My eyes scan the scene beyond the glass of my window just to check that I’m not insane. But I’m not. The crumbling buildings are definitely still there and so is the empty highway. “This just doesn’t look like the London I’ve been told about.”

“Oh,” he says as his grin widens, “you mean _New_ London?”

“What?”

He laughs. “Y’know, like you have York and _New_ York?”

“Yeah and we also have New England but it doesn’t mean shit,” I huff. “It’s just a name.”

Dull, blue eyes stare back at me in the rear-view mirror and the freckles around Jack’s eyes become hidden as the skin around them crinkles when he smiles. “We brits take that _old_ and _new_ stuff pretty seriously,” he laughs. “Trost Academy is in _Old_ London. It’s where most of the historical stuff is. _New_ London is probably what you’ve heard about. That’s where all the futuristic shit happens. But there’s still a lot of our nation’s history there. We won’t be driving through the New part, but I’m sure you’ll see it out your window.”

Leaning back in my seat, I glance out through the glass again. I had no idea that London even had an old and a new part. Dad always just called it London whenever he visited. I’m guessing he’s never been to Old London, then.

“So is there, like, a divide between Old and New London?” I ask, looking into the mirror to try and gain eye contact from him. I don’t get it.

“You ever ‘eard of the River Thames?”

“Yeah.”

He nods. “That’s ya divide.”

Jack ends up taking us down a route that skips the view of New London altogether because it’s quicker, but he was more than happy to describe it to me since he usually works around that area.

He talks of dark buildings that light up in a multitude of colors at night and set the streets into an effect that looks as the sidewalk’s on fire. He describes to me the contrast between the massive structures of architecture that are hundreds of years old and the clean, sharp corners of the new office buildings that surround the city, engulfing it in a permanent shadow of blazing light and keeping everything else out. He tells me that New London is in its own little bubble, producing seventy six percent of England’s wealth just in one area.

These stories are like fairytales compared to the structures I’m faced with as we drive into the center of Old London. Jack makes a trumpet sound through his pursed lips and we drive as slowly as we can so I can take in my surroundings and he can play tour guide.

None of it is of any interest to me. It’s all falling apart and looks as if this place never left the 2010s.

There’s a giant photograph in my kitchen of Piccadilly Circus in 2015 in full color with tourists all crowded around it like it’s the Holy Grail. And sixty two years later when we drive past it, it looks exactly the same. The only difference is the adverts on the screens, showing the latest Apple product and not Coca Cola. They’re not even using holograms or 3D imaging. It’s almost as if I’m looking right through Grandma Iris’s eyes.

We don’t stop driving for another whole hour and I’ve just about had enough of Old London until we stop seeing historical architecture and see barren wasteland instead.

“I thought you said that Trost Academy was in Old London?” I mutter, staring out as the buildings get smaller and smaller and eventually become rubble. “We’re driving right through it.”

The grim stare that Jack’s eyes give me through the reflection of the rear-view mirror sends chills down my spine. It’s not what I was expecting in comparison to all the jokes and wide-eyed grins he’s been giving me for the majority of the journey. “This _is_ Old London, mate,” he says. “This is just what the East side looks like.”

I don’t say anything else for the rest of the journey.

 

* * *

 

To put Trost Academy in one word, I’d probably describe it as… big. _Really_ big. Bigger than probably both of my previous high schools smashed together but with a bit more spookiness and complete weirdness sprinkled on top.

The word “traditional” is literally screaming at me as I look at the place I’ll be living in for the next few years. It’s something that may as well have walked right out of a history textbook.

On the leaflet my dad gave me that fateful day that he told me I was coming here, the place was described as having “a Victorian ambience” about it. They really weren’t fucking around. And I definitely wouldn’t call it an “ambience”, either. More like the entire fucking building looks like a haunted mansion, complete with ivy running up the sides, creepy arched windows that they could have borrowed from the local church and an ominous fog hanging in the air like a bad smell. The front door seems like a mountain away, as it’s perched at the top of a mossy staircase, shadowed by a columned archway. By the looks of things, the entire structure could collapse at any moment.

To make it even creepier, this place is in the middle of fucking nowhere, _not_ Old London. There are no _fields_ in London… or so I’m told. Anyone would this this was the countryside, not directly on the outskirts of a city. There’s _trees_ and everything. Jack had to drive through an entire forest just to get to an actual driveway and nearly broke the taxi. He couldn’t get away from this place quick enough and almost left without me paying him.

But here it is, standing in front of me like a fucking castle and a huge wooden door only a few feet away from me with a fucking metal knocker on it that looks like a wolf’s head. It’s bearing it’s teeth and everything.

This entire situation reminds me of one of those teenage fantasy novels you get that all the girls get obsessed over, but they just never realize that the story’s been done a hundred times before. The scenario usually goes that a new kid goes to a creepy school, they meet someone who’s messed up in some way, and their entire life is changed.

Well, here’s the creepy school. Now where the fuck is my extremely hot love interest who’s probably fucked up beyond belief?

“Are you coming in or are you just going to stand there like a lemon?”

My head snaps towards the front door, which is now open and is encasing a small, tight-lipped guy in a suit. He’s got his arms folded over his chest like he owns the place and his tapping his foot impatiently. It looks like he’s been there for a while now.

I don’t think he’s my love interest. He looks old enough to be my dad.

“Mr. Kirschtein,” he snaps, “are you coming in or would you like to stand out here and wait for winter?” The more he speaks, the more I begin to get to grips with his accent. It’s definitely not British, that’s for sure. Maybe French?

Hoping not to get snapped at by the little foreign dude again, I grab my three cases and scramble over to the staircase. Even though he looks taller when I’m standing on the bottom step, I can still tell he’s below average height by a long mile. But he’s pretty intimidating despite his height.

“Hurry up or you’ll miss your first lesson,” he mutters, disappearing into the black behind him. He keeps the door open for me, and without a second thought, I haul myself and my cases up the stairs.

Stumbling through the front door, I crash into the peculiar warmth of the building and let my cases fall to the floor. The door behind me closes, and I turn to face the same guy that was snapping at me only a few moments ago. And he really is short. He must only just about reach my nose.

Without giving me much regard, the man saunters over to the abandoned desk behind me. It’s wooden, adorned with swirls and golden edges that haven’t been tampered with… and old. Everything in this place seems old.

The man starts rummaging through the drawers facing him and finally takes out a piece of paper. He looks up and hands me the slip. It slices through the air with a swish and I get chills down my spine. “This is a map of the grounds,” he says. “All the classrooms are on the ground floor and all the dorms are on the first floor. The second floor is out of bounds for students and is only accessed by members of staff. Is that clear?”

“Y-yes, sir,” I stammer, staring at the map. Fortunately, it’s pretty basic. A map of the ground floor has been drawn out all with numbered rooms, and my own classrooms have been shaded in red… as has my dorm on the second floor by the looks of things.

“I see you’ve chosen to take Biology and Ancient History, yes?”

I nod.

“You’re staying in Dorm 29 and your Biology lessons are held in Room 5. Ancient History is in Room 12,” the guy says, taking out more slips of paper with my name scrawled across and stacking them on the desk. “Luckily for you, I’m the one teaching you Ancient History.” Something tells me that neither of us is too happy about that. “Professor Zoe will be teaching you biology, and if you would use gender neutral pronouns for them that would be much appreciated.”

“O-of course.”

A wad of paper is shoved in front of me and he stares at me with beady eyes. “These are the school rules, your timetable and the names of all the professors here and which subjects they teach.”

I flick through the sheets until I find the list of professors and I run my finger down the surprisingly small list of names.  Under Ancient History, only one name is written: Professor L Ackerman.

“You’re professor Ackerman?” I ask, looking up from the list.

He nods, then turns on the heels of his feet and begins to proceed over to a wide set of double doors without another word. When he realizes that I’m not following him, he beckons me to start walking. I reach down to pick up my bags, but he stops me.

“Leave them,” he snaps. “I’ll have someone take them up to your dorm.”

Gulping, I leave my bags where they are and follow Professor Ackerman through the doors.

The moment I step through them, my eyes are instantly blinded by the light pouring in from the ceiling. My hand snaps up to my face to shield my eyes and once they’re protected, I start taking in the rich red color surrounding me.

This room is almost the opposite of the scene and atmosphere I felt as I was standing outside. There’s an almost warm and inviting feel about this place, probably from the deep red walls, and although the sound of my feet echo over the wooden floorboards, I can feel the life running through here. It’s empty but I still hear voices, laughter and students rushing to their lessons.

In front of me lies yet another staircase. Coming from someone who has lifts in their house, I can tell that I’m going to be pretty fit by the time I come home. This thing is huge. The stairs at the bottom are wide and daunting, but like a ripple, they get smaller the further up they go, eventually leading up to the dorms. The doors are all on show, only having a small wooden balcony dividing them from the drop down to the ground floor.

Just as Professor Ackerman starts speaking again, a short, blonde girl stumbles out of one of the rooms, carrying a book half her size in her arms. She almost crashes into the balcony and then runs around to the top of the staircase. Yet the moment she spots Professor Ackerman and me, she freezes.

“I-I’m really sorry I’m late, sir,” she stammers. “I overslept and I—“

“Just get to your lesson, Christa,” he says dryly. “I’m sure if you run Professor Church won’t mind too much.”

Curtly nodding, she runs down the stairs and disappears down one of the corridors on the other side of the room, her footsteps fading behind her the further she goes.

“You should probably get going too,” he drones. “Professor Zoe can’t stand latecomers.”

I scrabble through the papers again, searching for the map I was given earlier, but there’s so many of them that I almost spill them all over the floor. A hand on my back stops me from making a fool of myself, and Professor Ackerman stares at me blankly.

He raises his hand and points to the same corridor Christa stormed through. “Down there,” he instructs. “Room 5.”

Nodding, I follow Christa’s lead and scramble through the hall. I slide into the corridor, narrowly avoiding knocking an old portrait off the wall and run down it, passing each room that doesn’t have the number five imprinted on it in gold.

Finally, at the very end of the hallway, I reach Room 5. I go to open the door, but my hand starts shaking. This really isn’t the time for nerves to be getting the best of me. Ever since I was told that I was coming here I’ve been fine up until now. If anything I was confident about coming here, convincing myself that my dad would eventually see that he needs me at home and brings me back to San Francisco.

But now that I really am here and not in the situation I hoped, my wishes of going back seem to dwindle away right before my eyes. This wooden door in front of me only opens up my commitment to stay here… and I don’t have that. I don’t even know why I didn’t just follow Thomas’s advice and just run away before I even got on that fucking plane. Being here is going to be the end of me and I knew that from the start.

So why the fuck did I allow myself to come?

I’m just about to turn around and get out of here before I try to convince myself to stay, when the door to Room 5 slams open.

The moment the guy in the threshold sees me, his eyes widen in what looks like panic and he grips the wood around him. His wide eyes only accentuate the massive scar he’s got slashed across his face, making it crinkled and look even longer than it was a second ago.

Before I can even say a word to him, Scarface starts looking a little peaky and begins swaying in the doorway. The moment I reach out to him, he falls backwards, hitting his head on the ground.

Everyone else in the class screams as he crashes to the floor. All eyes instantly turn to Scarface, then to me, and then back to him again. Amongst the commotion, the professor at the front of the class simply smiles at me. They turn away from the chalkboard to face me and the unconscious Scarface and puts down the chalk in their hand onto the desk.

“Hello, Jean,” they grin, “would you mind taking Marco to see Mama since you’ve made such an impression on him?”

Well I definitely can’t leave now, can I?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> If there's anything you want me to see to do with this fic, then just drop it into the tags 'fic: four the living', 'fic: ftl' or 'livsws' and I'll go check it out.
> 
> I have a [tumblr](http://livsws.tumblr.com/) and also a [twitter](https://twitter.com/livsws)
> 
> Comments and kudos are much appreciated ♥


	3. It's Complicated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We can easily forgive a child who is afraid of the dark; the real tragedy of life is when men are afraid of the light.”   
> ― Plato

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been a while but hello I am on a writing spree. Yes, this will now be updated regularly now that I've finished writing 'The Witch's Son'. This chapter probably isn't very exciting but I just wanted to introduce some characters and get Jean settled before shit hits the fan, y'know?  
> I do hope you enjoy this chapter and stay tuned because I'll be updating more often from now on!

No matter how many times I look from the dizzy Scarface lying dazed on the floor, to Professor Zoe staring at me with bright eyes and a smile to match at the front of the room, I can’t get rid of the seven other faces all staring me down like a cow’s just walked into their classroom. However, since this is England, I wouldn’t be surprised if that did actually happen. All kinds of weird shit seems to go down here.

Each and every one of the other students are all gawking at me as if I just killed someone. It’s dumb since they can clearly see that Scarface is still alive… just a little dizzy and not quite making eye contact with me as his eyes slide all over the place in a daze.

A brunette girl with wide russet eyes sitting near to the door seems to be the one gaping the most. She’s sat not too far away from me and the body lying on the floor, clinging onto the back of her chair as if she’ll share the same fate as Scarface if she looks me in the eye too.

In an attempt to make friends since I don’t think I’ve made a great impression so far, I give her my signature smile that makes me look like I’m constipated. It doesn’t work. She keeps staring at me like all the others, if not a little more creeped out by the stranger that’s just walked into the classroom and made a student faint just by looking at him.

“Jean?” Professor Zoe chirps in a heavy French accent, making my eyes shoot from Scarface and up to face them. That’s probably the first time I’ve heard my name pronounced the way it should be since my French lessons in high school. And even then it was usually yelled, not said like that.

“U-uh, yeah?” I stammer, looking past the staring eyes all aimed at me.

“Did you hear what I said?”

Probably not. I’ve been too busy trying to make friends by giving everyone the smile of a psychopath. Instead of saying all of that, though, I just say an appropriate, “No, sorry.”

With a teasing tut, Professor Zoe saunters through the room towards me and Scarface, who’s starting to come around. “I asked you to take Marco to go see Mama if that’s alright?”

I’m just gonna take a guess that Scarface is Marco. Mama on the other hand? I don’t have a fucking clue.

“Who’s Ma—“

Before I can finish my sentence, Professor Zoe crouches down in front of me and starts to soothe Scarface. “Are you alright, Marco?” they smile, slowly helping him sit up and keeping his neck straight with a firm hand.

He presses his hand to his forehead and winces as he sits up, a rush of air escaping past his parted lips. Grimacing, he nods. His squinted eyes begin to adjust to his surroundings and he eventually starts looking around clearly. And then he looks up at me. “Oh,” he laughs. “Hello.”

He’s the first British guy I’ve met so far in this dump. For a school that’s been built in England, that’s just not right.

At first, I’m not quite sure what to say to him. My first thought is to apologize, but that would probably look weird and he’s smiling at me so innocently that I don’t think he realizes that he fainted the very moment he saw me. And then I think that maybe I should introduce myself, but I think he’s heard Professor Zoe call out my name already. Then there’s the issue of not looking like an idiot in front of all these prying eyes. It’s like what happened on the plane all over again.

“Hi,” I eventually manage to choke. “H-how are you?”

“Well I just fainted, so you tell me,” he laughs, giving Professor Zoe a slight nod before hauling himself up off the floor. When he stands up he wobbles a little, starting to look pale again and his eyes start wandering astray. Then he stumbles forwards, falling not so gracefully into me and I grab his waist before he falls any further. “Alright, maybe I’m not doing so good.”

Glancing over Marco’s shoulder, I see Professor Zoe give me a nod, reminding me of what she asked me earlier. “Just help him hobble along to Mama’s office,” they say. “Marco knows where it is, don’t worry.”

Nodding back, I start shuffling out of the classroom with Marco still weak at the knees and holding onto me for support. When I said I was trying to make friends, though, this definitely isn’t what I had in mind. It’s a little too touchy-feely for me. A part of me really wants him to let the fuck go of me, but then he’d probably fall over again… and I don’t exactly want to get myself a reputation on the first day.

The moment I manage to drag both myself and Marco out of the classroom, Professor Zoe shuts the door closed behind us, but not before giving me a few words of encouragement. “Good luck, Jean,” they smile, “and welcome to Trost Academy.”

Good luck for what? I only need to drag some random guy I’ve only just met to go see someone I don’t know and somehow navigate my way there without Marco passing out on me again. What could go wrong?

And then the sound of the door clicking shut brings me back and we’re left alone. Just me and Marco together in an empty corridor surrounded by creepy portraits and silence – the only problem being that I think he might have returned to Lala Land again.

Using my shoulder as a lever, I manage to shift Marco away from my chest. Lo and behold, he’s awake and he’s got a dumb grin on his face that’s still a little hazy. If anything he looks high as a kite. “Sorry,” mumbles, “I faint sometimes.”

“I can see that,” I muse, hefting his arm around my shoulder so there’s a little boundary between us. I’m not really one for getting touchy with one of my classmates on the first day. “So, uh,” I stumble, looking around me for a good topic starter… fuck. I’m meant to be taking him to see this “Mama” person and I have no idea where that is.

I look to Marco who still looks like he’s just inhaled a whole field of pot and decide that it’s probably best to not speak to him in case people think he’s stoned. He probably can’t even remember where Mama is.

My worry of people seeing the two of us like this soon disappears. The further we stumble down the corridor and get ever closer to the red hall I went into earlier, I can see that there’s basically no one around. I can’t even hear other students anymore.

Luckily for me, Marco starts to remember how to walk again. Although he starts off a little dizzy and still keeps his arm around me for support, he begins to actually use his feet instead of letting me drag him along. He probably finds this just as awkward as I do.

“I-I’m Jean, by the way,” I stutter as we enter the red hall. “Jean Kirschtein.”

We come to a stop as I realize that I don’t know where the fuck we’re going, and Marco (who’s annoyingly taller than me) smiles at me with a wide, toothy grin. “Marco Bodt.”

“As in robot?”

He laughs. “Something like that.”

I nod, then go back to my silent panicking, staring down each corridor that surrounds this place with frenzy as I try and find a way out. Each one I look down seems exactly the same, though. It’s all just rows and rows of old wallpaper and antique portraits of people I should probably recognize but don’t.

“It’s that way,” Marco says, pointing down the corridor on the right of the staircase. “Then you go left at the portrait of Einstein.”

Clueless, I look up at him with a frown and shake my head. “Who the fuck is Einstein?”

Marco lets out an over-dramatic gasp and slams his hand to his chest in feigned disbelief. “You don’t know who Albert Einstein is?”

I shrug. “No.”

Still shocked by my lack of knowledge, Marco raises his eyebrows and pushes both of us forwards towards the corridor. “Whatever you do,” he says, “don’t say that to Professor Shultz unless you have a death wish. The guy idolizes Einstein.”

“Got it,” I nod, even though I don’t know who that guy is. It seems to me that I don’t know a lot. I haven’t even had time to read the school rules yet and I can already tell that they’re going to be harsher than a pissy teacher when you hand in your homework late.

Speaking of teachers…“So what’s the deal with Professor Ackerman?” I ask.

“What do you mean?” Marco frowns, pursing his lips in confusion.

“Why’s he so… grumpy?”

Marco bursts into fits of laughter and clings onto me as if he’s just busted a lung. So much air’s coming out of him that I think he might have. I don’t see how what I just said was so funny, though.

Before he fucks up his other lung, Marco calms himself down and straightens slightly. He gazes at me with wide, coffee eyes that devour me whole and smiles at me endearingly. “What you need to know about the professors at Trost Academy is that they’re all fucked up beyond belief.”

Please don’t let one of the professors be my hot love interest. That would be really fucking creepy.

“How’re they fucked up?”

Marco shrugs. “No one knows. Well, no one except Pixis.”

That name rings a bell. He was the guy who wrote to my dad in the first place. “He’s the headmaster, right?”

“He sure is,” Marco nods. “And he knows everything about everyone in this place.”

“Even me?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if he did,” he laughs as we transition from the warming red of the hall to the cold corridor that’s paved with stone cobbles.

Scoffing, I heave him up a little as he starts to slip down the length of my arm. At least we’re making conversation now instead of bathing in awkwardness. And hey, he’s not so bad either. The stereotype of snobby British kids has officially been destroyed. Yay, Marco.

“How the hell would he know anything about me?” I ask, keeping up the conversation so we don’t take the train back to Awkwardville. “It’s not like he stalks me or anything.”

“Well, you certainly make the news headlines a lot,” he giggles, scrunching up his nose as he snorts.

That’s when I stop and momentarily let go of him. He keeps his grip on me, though, in case he gets another fainting episode.

“You know who I am?”

He nods, slinging my arm back to where it was. Then he pushes us to walk on, urging that Mama’s office isn’t too far away and somewhat avoiding the topic he just brought up. He gives me a comforting smile that I recognize as the first real act of kindness I’ve experienced since I landed in this country. The air hostess that said goodbye to me doesn’t count – she’s paid to be nice to everyone, no matter how shitty.

“Most people here know who you are,” he says quietly, glancing at the faces hanging on the walls. “But no one’s going to say anything about it. We all come from places we’d rather not talk about.”

His comment confuses me, but at the same time, I can’t help but notice the sad expression that graces his features. It only appears for a moment and then dissolves into nothing. But somehow, I understand what he’s saying. He may not know that much about me, but at least he can tell that I hate talking about my dad and what he does for a living. And I respect that.

We go silent for a moment, allowing me to take in my surroundings. However, instead of taking in the pictures on the wall, I can’t help myself but stare at the scar on Marco’s face. It’s a shame, really. It’s the first thing I noticed about him and it’s not even his most defining feature. There’s a lot that’s noticeable about him, actually. He’s got freckles on his cheeks that instantly make him look about five years younger than he probably is, and his eyes are deep and welcoming, set in dreary bags that make him look as if he hasn’t slept in years.

He’s not intimidating in any way whatsoever. It’s just that scar that runs from the right side of his forehead and down over his eye that makes him look hostile… and he’s anything but.

Before I can think of something to say that isn’t about his face, Marco pulls me past a portrait of a guy who looks like your stereotypical mad scientist – hair and all. I’m gonna take a guess and say that must be Einstein since we’re now trekking down yet another corridor that has stone walls that haven’t quite been covered in wallpaper yet.

“You know, I don’t mind you staring,” Marco laughs as he keeps his line of sight straight ahead. He seems to be the one dragging me now. “I’m used to it.”

I’m taken aback for a moment, then realize what he’s talking about. “No, no, I was just… uh…”

“Really, Jean,” he smiles, “it’s fine. I’ve had it for years; I’m used to being stared at.”

Guilt comes crashing down on me like a ton of bricks. At first, I think I’ve hurt his feelings, but when he starts laughing, guilt turns into confusion.

My brows knit together as his laughter dies down and he looks at me with a chilling grin. “If you think the one on my face is worth staring at, you should see the ones on my chest.”

“You have more?”

“Yeah, they’re everywhere.”

Instead of speaking, I decide to just look dumbfounded at him, imagining silently what exactly he went through to get scars “everywhere”. The fact that he says it so casually doesn’t help either. And the one on his face isn’t exactly attractive. It looks old, as if he’s had it since he was a child and it clings to his clearer skin like claws. I can’t even tell what that side of his face looked like before he got the scar.

Whilst I continue to stare at him in shock, Marco decides to prove his point. Our arms unlace and he takes a step back. He then moves the right sleeve of his black jacket up his arm a little and my heart sinks for him.

Countless, vertical scars and scrapes appear on his arm that look like claw marks. My first assumption is that he’s done this to himself since this place does have counselling, after all. But he talks about it so nonchalantly that he’s either begging for attention or something else did this to him. And this is only one part of his skin.

I haven’t even been here an hour and I feel as if I’m already emotionally invested in a guy I know nothing about because for some reason I feel sorry for him. Despite his casual attitude about the disfigurements on his skin, I still feel as if I have to be around him now that he’s shown me this. Or are all the kids here like that? They’re all just so fucked up that they don’t care who they tell about what’s happened to them, even the new guy.

Marco rolls his sleeve back down again and I can tell he instantly regrets his decision to show me his skin. I think he can tell from the look on my face that I’m a little overwhelmed by all of this. I even take a step away from him when he comes towards me.

His face falls as he notices the grain of fear that’s been planted within me and he hangs his head low. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I shouldn’t have shown you that. It’s your first day I don’t want you to—“

“It’s fine,” I cut him off, knowing that it probably isn’t and now I’m more worried than I should be about a guy I’ve only just met. “I just, uh, was a little shocked at how open you are about this.”

“I am really sorry,” he repeats with way more sincerity than before. He even looks like he’s panicking slightly. “I don’t want to freak you out on your first day.”

If he doesn’t want to freak me out then he should probably stop apologizing because it’s getting creepy.

“Really, I’m fine,” I clarify, somehow becoming calmer as I’m faced with Marco’s apologetic gaze. The guy may be kinda odd, but at least he’s sincere and seems to have a heart. And I guess I do feel sorry for him since he has to live in this dump and seems to have been here for a while. “Let’s just get you to this Mama person before you faint on me again.”

Smiling, he nods, glad to see that I’m a little more relaxed around him and he hooks his arm around my neck again, even though I suspect that he probably doesn’t need me to walk him anymore. But hey, at least I’m actually talking to someone now that isn’t a grumpy professor.

We continue to talk as we carry on down the endless corridor. Technically, I do most of the talking since Marco doesn’t seem to be big on talking about his family and I tell him about my shitpiece dad and my brother.

“What about your mum?” Marco asks. “Isn’t she around?”

I shake my head. “My mom left when I was ten.”

“I’m sorry,” Marco murmurs, but I can’t help but laugh at him. “What?”

“You’re doing that a lot today.”

“Doing what?”

“Apologizing.”

Laughing, he shrugs and keeps his eyes ahead of him. “Force of habit, I suppose.” Then his eyes light up as we edge closer to a large wooden door that reminds me of the one that leads to this place. It’s even got that creepy wolf knocker on it. “This is Mama’s office,” Marco nods.

Well, it’s about fucking time. Now I’ll actually get to find out who Mama is. I’m taking a lucky guess here, but I’m pretty sure she’s the nurse around here. Or at least I hope she is or this trip would be pretty pointless since we were sent here to get Marco checked out. It would be pretty pointless to go see the school’s accountant after fainting, right?

Reaching out, Marco knocks on the medieval door. The sound echoes through the dingy stone hall and time seems to stretch out for a millennium before I hear a creak and the door to Mama’s office opens.

A man who’s too tall for his own good stares back at us and almost has to duck under the threshold to get a good look at our faces. He flashes us a quick, stubbly smile and tucks his long, sandy hair behind his ear, obviously recognizing Marco instantly.

If this is Mama then I’m shocked. This guy doesn’t look motherly in any way whatsoever and as far as I can tell he’s definitely not female.

“Mama,” Marco begins, shoving me forwards a little, “this is Jean. He’s new here.”

The tall guy who I’ve now concluded to be Mama ducks completely under the archway so he doesn’t hit his head and holds out his hand to me. And it’s a really big fucking hand. It’s probably the size of my chest. He looks like he could crush me with his pinky.

Fearing for the survival of my fingers, I shake his hand and smile at him without saying a word whilst he stares at me with deep eyes that look as if he’s learning everything about me with just one look.

“Yes,” Mama finally says with a warm smile, “I’ve heard all about you, Mr. Kirschtein.”

“A lot of people have by the sound of things,” I laugh nervously. Not only is he squeezing my hand harder than he probably realizes, he’s also towering over me like a giant. I have to almost snap my neck in half just to give him eye contact.

Eventually, he releases my hand and I try to hold back my sigh of relief.

“So why are you both here? Are you ill?” Mama asks.

Marco shakes his head. “I fainted. Jean just walked me here.”

Mama’s eyes quickly glance over me and then he resumes his calm demeanor just as fast. He raises an eyebrow and I instantly feel awkward since I can feel Marco’s eyes on me too. “Do you know why you fainted, Marco?”

“Not really,” he murmurs, looking at me with a crooked smile. “It must have been Jean’s face that caused me to collapse.”

A really unattractive sound comes out of my nose as I try to stifle my laughter and instead of keeping things quiet, I end up making Marco burst into laughter again. This only makes us both look like dumb schoolboys (which I guess we are) and Mama simply rolls his eyes as he looks on at the two of us.

“Of course, Marco. I’ll be sure to add that into your report,” Mama teases, trying to sound as comforting as he can in his harsh Russian (I’m merely guessing here) accent. Before he thwacks his head on the archway as he turns away, he turns to us again and manages to gain eye contact with me through my random bursts of squeaks that are meant to be coming out as laughs. “If you don’t want to call me Mama, Jean, you can call me Mr. Zacharius or Mike. I’m the campus doctor and I also hold a lot of the counselling sessions here. My office is open twenty four hours a day so pop by anytime.”

That was probably the most British sentence I’ve ever heard. What is this, the 18th century? Who even says “pop by” anymore? And he’s not even British.

Once again trying not to laugh instead of speak, I nod, puffing my cheeks out to keep all the air in. Next thing I know, Marco’s being beckoned into Mama’s office and I realize that I’ve got to find my way back to Room 5 on my own.

He brushes past me briefly and then smiles as he heads towards the door, then he stops. “Which dorm are you in?” he asks.

I reply without missing a beat. “Dorm 29.”

“I’m in Dorm 34,” he smiles. “You should come by some time. I’m one of the lucky ones who wasn’t given a roommate.”

Remembering that I’m meant to be getting a roommate today, my heart sinks just a little finding out that it’s not Marco. I guess it would have made life easier if it was him. That would have saved me another awkward introduction. And I suck at those.

“I’ll make sure I do,” I nod sincerely.

With that, Marco disappears into the dark space of Mama’s office and closes the door behind him, without giving me directions back to Room 5. And even though it’s stupid, I don’t knock on the door to ask.

 

* * *

 

By the time I actually get back to Room 5 after getting lost in the maze of eerie corridors that make up this gigantic place, the lesson is basically over and students are beginning to pile out of the door and down the hall.

Knowing that Professor Zoe’s probably going to be pissed that I bunked out of the first lesson of the year, I battle my way through the stream of students all carrying books. And if there’s anything I learned from High School, it was how to survive a stampede of students.

Those years of training seem to have paid off and I manage to dodge a collision with almost every other person heading my way. Even if they all give me funny looks because of my epic evasion skills, I still get out of the other side with all my limbs nicely attached to my body and to me that’s worth it.

As I approach the door, the gaping girl from earlier walks out and starts grinning manically. At first, I think she’s smiling at someone else, so I turn to see if there’s anyone else who seems to be reciprocating her grin. Everyone else is moving down the corridor at high speed and none of them seem to be taking notice of her and next thing I know she’s coming towards me as if I’m her long-lost BFF.

Coming to the conclusion that she’s definitely aiming her friendliness at me, I smile back at her, trying not to give off how awkward I’m actually finding this.

“Hello!” she chirps.

Instead of greeting her back, I just stand there like an awkward potato and give her a thin-lipped smile.

“You haven’t missed much,” she babbles in an almost unrecognizable intonation. “Just a few basic intros and a wee bit on the heart.” 

Scottish. It’s almost impossible to not recognize that dialect.

Breathing a sigh of relief, I nod in thanks. “Do you think I should go in and see them?” I ask, gathering that this girl seems to give off the vibe that she knows more about Professor Zoe than I do.

She nods. “I would do out of cur’esy. They’ve got yer books for you.”

“Thanks,” I smile. I’m almost shocked at how nice people in England are. And there I was thinking I was either going to be swamped by snobs or ambushed by riff-raffs. Unless they’re all secretly planning to kill me in my sleep, then I’ve certainly been fooled. “I’m Jean, by the way.” I extend my hand out to her in an attempt to make friends and she accepts it with an either wider grin that’s probably more psychotic than the one I pulled earlier.

She shakes it vigorously, not breaking eye contact and I’m starting to fear for my hand’s life for the second time today. “The name’s Sasha,” she beams. “I’m new here too, but I got here a few days early so I kinda know my way around.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I nod, slowly trying to retract my hand so it’s not crushed.

Luckily for me, she lets go of my hand and starts running off down the corridor, shouting after a tiny person sporting a blonde bob that the sixties would probably like back.

Taking a deep breath, I enter Room 5 and accept my fate.

Professor Zoe looks up from their desk when I knock on the wooden threshold and smiles instantly, beckoning me to come closer to them. As I approach, they simply return to their paperwork instead of giving me a good roasting. “How is Marco?” they ask.

I stop at the final row of desks and sit myself down on the nearest one to me. “Fine, I think. He was practically walking on his own by the time we got to Mama’s.”

“Good,” Professor Zoe nods. “I trust the two of you had a lot to talk about, yes?”

Not knowing what they mean by that, I just nod and continue to sit awkwardly on the crooked desk. “Uh, Sasha said you had books for me?”

They raise their finger at me as they finish off a sentence on their paperwork. As I watch them scribble down words with a pen, I can’t help but imagine how much easier things would be if they just installed some basic technology in this place. When they’re done, they get up without a word and amble over towards a colossal bookcase, holding not only books but several dead animal specimens in bell jars.

Wincing at the rat specimen that looks like it wants to gnaw my face off, Professor Zoe collects three immense hardback books from the shelves and then brings them back to me. They slam them down on her desk and then leans on them casually. “These are your books,” they grin. “Today we read pages forty seven to fifty two on the heart. Please read those for your catch-up and remember to bring a strong stomach for your next lesson.”

“Why?”

“We’re doing a dissection.”

I gulp. “Got it.”

They nod, then saunter back to their original place. Nothing is said about me missing the lesson, so I take no notice of it. So not to make thing awkward, I pick up my books thankfully without breaking any of my bones and leave.

I storm out the door of Room 5 with books in hand and head towards the dorm so I can meet my roommate and get it over and done with.

He’d better fucking be there. Judging from the five second glance I got of my timetable, students only have a short lesson in the morning and then have another just before dinner. So he should, theoretically, be in our dorm.

Our dorm. Fucking hell.

Mid-sigh, some idiot walks into me and my books go flying all over the corridor.

“The fuck?” Grumbling under my breath, I rush to get my books before they get trampled and a pair of neon yellow trainers stands in front of me and begins to apologize.

“Hey, man, I’m so sorry about that,” the trainers say sincerely as I pick up the last of my books. Said trainers are connected to a very short, dark body of some skinhead guy wearing sunglasses indoors… in England.

I huff at the apology, un-creasing one of the pages of my largest textbook. “Yeah, you fucking should be.”

“I’m really sorry,” he says again. “I didn’t see you.”

“There’s hardly anyone in this corridor,” I frown, questioning his taste in clothes further. He’s put on clashing shades of yellow and it’s really bugging me. I mean, those shoes with that shirt? Really?

“No, I really do mean that I didn’t see you.”

“What?”

He points to his sunglasses. “I’m blind.”

It takes a few moments to register, but then the realization that I’m a massive fucking dick hits me and I start grasping around for the lever that’s going to shoot me into outer space. When I don’t find it I put my hands to my mouth in hopes it’ll stop me from talking. But I don’t.

“Oooh my god,” I gasp. “Oooh my god. I’m so sorry; I didn’t know.”

Sunglasses laughs almost hysterically and waves his hand in dismissal. "Don't worry about it," he grins. "You'll get used to it after a while."

I notice that although he's blind, he doesn't carry a stick with him. Maybe when you lose one sense your other do get stronger after all. I also notice a very calming accent from him.

"I'm still really sorry, though,” I say, hoping for a lengthy response so I can figure out where abouts in the USA he's from.

He shrugs and smiles as if he's known me for ages. "Really, it's fine. I'm Connie by the way." He reaches out his hand to me and I take it firmly, feeling a little more relaxed hearing an accent from somewhere I know.

"Jean Kirschtein," I reply. 

"Oh yeah!" Connie grins. "You're from 'Cisco, right? Your dad's that guy who can make people immortal."

My tone lowers. "Yeah."

Connie backs away with his hands in the air. "Woah, sorry, dude. Didn't realize you felt that way about it."

"Excuse me?"

He sniggers. "I can hear it in your voice that you don't like talking about it. I won't say a word, I promise." With his index finger, Connie makes a crossing motion over where his heart should be, then salutes.

I appreciate the smile that comes with his sentiment and thank him, reminding myself that I have a roommate to meet and bags to unpack. "You wouldn't happen to know the way back to the dorms, would you?" I ask, looking down at the never ending corridor.

"On my way there now," Connie says, despite originally walking in the opposite direction earlier. "You can tell me all about 'Cisco on the way."

As we start to walk, I almost want to hold on to Connie to make sure he doesn't bump into anything, but he remains straight, some odd sixth sense guiding him the right way. He keeps looking at me as if he can really see me, but I know that there's only a blank space in front of him, somehow guiding him through the maze that leads back to the main hall. How he knows his way around is beyond me.

Keeping my promise, I tell him all about San Francisco and the City of Light, where the best places to eat are and the best tourist attractions. Connie tells me that he's from Brooklyn, once a thriving part of New York, now a cold and overpopulated wasteland. "That's why I like it here," he says. "There's someone from every corner of the world and you can hear the most amazing stories."

In a way, I like Connie's way of thinking. It's a lot better than wondering why no one here is British and now I see why: they seem to accept everyone here.

"What if someone else from Brooklyn was here? Would you still want to hear their story?" I ask.

Connie nods. "Although we'd be from the same place, we probably experienced it very differently." He looks to me. "I mean, you'd probably experience San Fransisco very differently to someone who lived outside the Bay Area, right?"

In reality, I have no idea how people live outside the Bay Area, but so not to look like an ignorant shit I agree, reaching out my arm to Connie if he needs it as we clamber up the stairs to the dorms.

Once we reach the top, I look back down to the main hall from the balcony we're walking along and think of the drop down. Those stairs seemed to go on forever and the thought of tumbling down them onto the hard oak floor below makes my eyes dart from the space below me to straight ahead.

"Which dorm?" Connie asks.

"29."

He points to yet another corridor to our right. "It's down there on the left somewhere."

The silver numbers "20 - 30" are placed crookedly on the wall and down the archway are ten doors, five on each side directly facing each other, and at the end is a tall window, letting a beam of white light into the dark corridor. My guess is I'm right down the end by the window.

"I'm in 17," Connie says, "you don't have to knock if you want to come by. The floors are so creaky I'll be able to hear you from miles away."

With that, Connie and I nod to one another, even though he can't see me, and we go our separate ways. Him continuing on to the next corridor where he disappears and I staring down the dorms in front of me, wondering who's in the other rooms and who's already in mine.

As I walk, I hear voices coming from maybe one or two other rooms, but the rest seem to be completely empty. The light from the window sends chills down my spine as I approach it, the light shining through not that of the warm, yellow sun, but from the icy clouds hovering above the building.

Dorm 29 has a very normal and very boring door. It’s wood, much like the others, and has its numbers hand-painted in silver just above my line of sight. It has a gold, swirling handle and a keyhole underneath, I go to see if the handle will turn. A part of me hopes it’s locked.

Unfortunately, the handle twists and muffled music begins to become louder as the door opens. It’s some kind of synth based music, the kind that they listened to in the 1980s almost one hundred years ago. It’s slow and melancholic, repeating what seems to be the same phrase over and over again. By the time I’ve stuck my head into the dorm the volume is deafening.

If this is my roommate’s taste in music then I don't think we’ll get along too well.

“We're functioning automatik,” sings my roommate. “And we are dancing mechanik. We are the robots.”

I see him lying on one of the two beds in the surprisingly spacious room, staring up at the pristine white ceiling whilst he taps his fingers on his chest in time with the music. I notice that a pile of bags, including mine, are jumbled together on the other side of the door, making it almost impossible to get in.

“Uh, hello?” I call, trying to reach him. They guy’s so deep into LaLa Land I don't think he's even noticed I exist yet. “Hey?”

I push against the door a little harder, pressing all my weight against the door but the bags won’t budge. It’s like this guy’s got an elephant in his suitcase or something.

“Ja tvoi sluga,” he sings louder. “Ja tvoi Rabotnik.”

Now I’m just starting to believe that he's ignoring me on purpose.

This time, I bang harshly on the door. “Can you move your shit out of the fucking way?!” I yell, and the guy jumps up from his comfortable position, looking like a startled rabbit.

“Sorry!” he shouts. Everything else he says comes out as mumbles, masked by the deafening music still blasting throughout the room. He cooly slides off the bed, ruffling his mop of hair as he goes over to what looks like an old CD player. 

“My grandma owns one of them,” I mumble to myself.

He starts repeatedly pressing a button on the top of the CD player, not knowing what he’s doing and starts growling at the thing. When the music doesn't stop playing, he whacks the CD player with his hand. Silence fills the room.

He turns to me with a wide smile and walks over, extending his hand to me through the crack in the door. “I’m Eren,” he says.

Still stuck on the wrong side of the door, I don’t return his handshake. “Yeah, that’s awesome. Do you mind moving the bags now?”

Holding his hands up, Eren kicks a few bags out of the way with little effort and the door slides open, giving me full access to the room. “Thank you,” I sigh. 

“And you are?” he asks. The _Guess the Accent_ game starts again.

“Jean.”

“Jzahn?”

“No, no, no,” I frown. “ _Jean_ , like the French.”

Eren returns my frown. “That’s what I said: _Jzahn_.”

I pause for a moment. “Where are you from?” I’ve given up on guessing.

“Füssen,” he smiles proudly.

I failed Geography in High School so his answer means nothing to me. “And where’s that?” I say cautiously, trying not to sound like a grade A idiot.

He laughs, probably thinking I’m a grade A idiot. “It’s in Germany.”

Well, that explains everything.

Instead of a response, I do a weird smile that makes me look as if I’m impressed when in reality I’m just wondering why people from all over the world are so desperate to come to this dump.

With regret, I gaze over to the massive pile of bags over by the door and dread going through them. Opening those bags is the final goodbye of freedom, a sign that I’m accepting my fate here. My silent cell tells me that no one’s tried to contact me since I left San Francisco, not even Thomas, begging me to come back because they miss me. Dad’s probably told him not to talk to me for a while in case I get any ideas about leaving.

“… so you can have the bed by the window.” I hadn’t even noticed that Eren was speaking.

I snap out of it. “Sorry?”

One moment he’s right in front of me, the next he’s got all of his bags on his bed and has started unpacking them. “I said you can have the bed by the window,” he repeats. “I’m afraid of heights so I don’t want to be anywhere near that thing.”

The window in the room is a tall gothic archway with a black frame that looks out onto what lies beyond the school: grassland, dead, twisted trees… and a lake, murky and gray that disappears into the thickening shroud of fog. No wonder Eren doesn’t want to look out of the window; it looks like a scene from a horror movie.

Despite the unsettling scene, being by the window brings some kind of relief, like I’m always not too far away from the outside. Even says something about it looking nicer when it snows, but I don’t believe him.

A thump next to me snatches my head away from the window and I see my bags lumped onto my pathetic single bed, sans electric blanket. Eren smiles at his handiwork, trying to be friendly. “Do you want any help unpacking?” he asks.

I shake my head. “I’d like to keep them closed for a while until I settle in.”

Eren looks at me in confused silence and doesn’t move away from my bed, not getting the hint to leave me in my dramatic moment. “No one’s coming to get you, Jzahn,” he says. “No one’s coming to get any of us.”

Before I can ask if he’s trying to be ominous on purpose or not, Eren turns the CD player back on and the synth-based drone that’s one hundred years old restarts.

Ominous warning or not, the bags stay closed and I stare out the window, wondering how long it would take me to swim back home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: The song Eren is listening to is a ['We Are The Robots' by Kraftwerk](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VXa9tXcMhXQ) which was released in 1977, so really would be 100 years old in 2077.
> 
> I promise I'll update more often now! Stay tuned and thank you for reading!
> 
> If there's anything you want me to see to do with this fic, then just drop it into the tags 'fic: four the living', 'fic: ftl' or 'livsws' and I'll go check it out.
> 
> I have a [tumblr](http://livsws.tumblr.com/) and also a [twitter](https://twitter.com/livsws)
> 
> Comments and kudos are much appreciated ♥

**Author's Note:**

> This is now my second Jeanmarco fic which I have written alongside with my other fic, ['The Witch's Son'](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1581221/chapters/3358568) that is now complete. Due to the success of my other fic, I decided to do another one purely because I had so much fun writing TWS, so thank you for making that possible and I hope you enjoy this one as much as the last one.


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